


Shelter Also Gave Their Shade

by weathervaanes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Hippies, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Smut, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 00:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thanks God for this golden opportunity to experience love at first sight in rapid succession. If life on the road has taught him anything so far, it's that the stolen moments looking at strangers can be just as beautiful and heartbreaking as months by someone's side. If all of this driving and all of this living under the sun and the stars has been for the sole purpose of standing there with some fruit and milk and watching these beautiful people all covered in black then it has all been worth it, especially when one of the men looks at him with his devastating rain forest eyes.</p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Stiles and his friends take off to do nothing in particular and go nowhere specific in a crappy van.  Love happens along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter Also Gave Their Shade

Jackson hauls himself over to hang on the driver's seat. “Have you got any idea where we're going?”

“No, Jackson,” Stiles sighs, reaching over to turn up the volume.  “That's the whole point. Now mellow out or I'll tie you to the rooftop.”

“Guys,” Danny says with a smile, pulling Jackson back to his seat, “relax. Look, we have to stop in the next gas station anyway; we'll pick somewhere that sounds sweet.”

“Somewhere named after a girl,” Allison suggests.  “Aren't those little towns sweet?”

“I don't know about little towns,” Scott says all dazed like he always is. “I'd name a great big star after you.”

Lydia turned over in the passenger seat. “You're mega cute and all but I've about had it with sweet little towns; I think it's time we set out.”

Stiles switches on the blinker to avoid a fucker in a Mustang going twenty miles over the speed limit—not that there are any cops on the dinky back road—and inhales a bit of the cigarette smoke Jackson lets loose.  Not really his thing, but he refuses to break out the weed while behind the wheel.  Priorities.  “Set out where?” he asks.  “Chicago?  New York?”

“Next time you see a big green sign with a city printed on it that you actually recognize, pull off,” someone says gruffly from the back.  “We need a stop.”

“Actually Danny's right, Lyds,” he says, finally snatching the cigarette from Jackson and throwing it out the window.  “We gotta stop for gas. But after that, it's big city lights for my queen.”

She smiles, clapping shortly, and Stiles thinks she squirms her way into a cushion with Jackson underneath her, but the only thing he can be sure of is that Scott is sucking face with Allison and, well, some things never change.

Danny takes the front seat with him with his cup of lukewarm tea in hand, the one he makes in the morning and keeps around for the smell. “It was the right thing, all this.”

Stiles smiles over at him. “Yeah, I thought it might be. For us anyway.”

“Yeah.” Danny leans over and kisses his forehead.  “Thank you.”

Stiles drives in happy silence until they reach Alice, Texas. They're not sure if it'll be pretty but they're pretty sure it'll have gas.

Alice is fine.  They fill up the van and pull into a tiny diner for pancakes, even though it’s so late that Stiles can see a million constellations in the dark sky, and then they decide that they don’t feel like continuing on—not just yet.  So they pull into a parking lot that doesn’t look like it’s there for much except teens who want someplace to make out, and Stiles collapses on a mattress in the back, curled around Danny.

He wakes up to snores.

He disentangles himself as gently as possible from the group and falls out of the van. The air is wet with dew and hot, a different kind of heavy too. Like it's carrying more than water around in the night. He climbs on to the roof and lets the chills run through his body as the wind hits against his sweat-soaked shirt. The sun's about to rise, he knows because the pitch blackness holds a hidden navy blue and he welcomes the knowledge, like a secret that his new life builds upon. The sun will rise and his body will warm and the road will be black and scorching underfoot.

Stiles walks to the grocery store just a block down and buys food with the fifteen dollars he has in his pocket, enough for breakfast for all of them and snacks for when they start driving again.  He also goes by the drug store and picks up Batman Band-Aids because why not.  When he gets back to the van, he finds that the parking lot isn’t as empty as he’d left it.

Four bikers are revving numbly, dying down, and one of them steps off quickly, shoving off his helmet—oh.  Her.  Her helmet.

Stiles stares as the woman’s long, blonde hair falls around her shoulders.  He’s kind of maybe a little bit in love with her for a second because wow.  Wow, wow, wow.

But then the other three take off their helmets and Stiles thanks God for this golden opportunity to experience love at first sight in rapid succession. If life on the road has taught him anything so far, it's that the stolen moments looking at strangers can be just as beautiful and heartbreaking as months by someone's side. If all of this driving and all of this living under the sun and the stars has been for the sole purpose of standing there with some fruit and milk and watching these beautiful people all covered in black then it has all been worth it, especially when one of the men looks at him with his devastating rain forest eyes.

“Nice van,” the girl says, smiling at him with a mixture of interest and amusement in her eyes.

Stiles’ tongue swells in his mouth.  “Uh.  Thanks.”

The man with the eyes—fuck, those eyes—arches an eyebrow at his female companion before turning back to Stiles.  “Can you tell us where to find a motel?”

He’d seen one, about a block and a half from the drug store, and he points, saying as much.

“Appreciated,” the biker says shortly.

If Stiles wants to stay around town for one more day just to get a few warm meals in and glance at the maps they refuse to purchase, it has nothing to do with driving well past the drugstore for tampons while everyone waits in the diner and comments on what a brave little feminist soldier he is.  And if he keeps his eyes peeled for the shine of dark leather in the sunlight, well, it's no one's business but his. But the sun is almost falling when it's time to leave, head south and thank their stars for Lydia's foresight in bringing their passports along because really, it's time for some adventures in three years of mediocre Spanish vocabulary skills and real nachos.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend a week south of the border and Scott drinks the water from tap and gets violently sick and Jackson decides they need to get back in the States before some of the guys Lydia has been flirting with after too many margaritas decide they want to make her their wife and steal her away in the dead of night.  Anyway, they get to Oklahoma and have plans to get into Nebraska when their van gets a flat tire around Salina, Kansas.

“Fuck everything!” Stiles shouts, kicking at the dead thing and pouting.

“Relax,” Scott tells him.  “I got this.”

He doesn’t.

Danny ends up changing the tire—thankful that they have an extra in the back—and he and Stiles sit out in the dark that night with a joint, trading glances.

They’re not a thing, not really.  But they’ve been falling into a pattern.  Scott has Allison, Lydia has Jackson, and Stiles…wants.  Something.  And Danny is lovely, really, and nice, and so they curl together the way the other do and they’re affectionate but they’re not…  They’re just not.

So now they lay out here while the others are inside, they lay with their backs against the earth and the smoke above their eyes and their shoulders brush like little boys in tree houses with dreams they don't yet understand. “You looking for something?”

Danny shrugs and takes another drag. “Not that I know of. Why, are you?”

“I think I'm looking for something to look for,” he says quietly.

Danny smiles and kisses him dry and chaste to get the frown off his lips. “You're looking for a philosophical life. Everything was simple back home. Easy and beige you know? But you just want to paint everything purple.”

“Morado,” Stiles agrees.

Danny hums and puts out the joint before curling into Stiles' side. “It also means bruise.”

“How multi-cultural of you,” Stiles says dryly.  “I don’t want to go inside.”

“It’s not gonna rain.  If anything, we’ll wake up sweaty.”  Danny tugs him closer.  “Want me to grab a pillow?”

“No.  Stay.”  Stiles nuzzles at his neck.  “Just…stay.”

When Stiles notices the blonde girl in line at a coffee shop in Iowa a week later, he thinks his heart is going to stop.

The other blonde—Stiles calls him the angel boy in his head—is mumbling at his brother, the dark archangel. Stiles refuses to believe they're anything but heavenly bodies. He can hear the gentle excitement.

“But you can't tell Derek or he'll mock me forever, I just really want to see it, Boyd.”

“We're gonna see it, okay? Nothing else to do in this whole damn place and if he wants to laugh at you he can laugh at me too, but we're gonna pay our respects to Captain Kirk.”

Stiles almost swoons.  “Captain Kirk?” he asks, because he just can’t help it.

The dark archangel, who is apparently named Boyd, turns.  Smirks.  “Riverside.  It’s like five minutes from here?  The future birthplace of—”

“James T. Kirk,” Stiles laughs.  “Yeah, of course.  Wow.”

The blonde boy blushes and looks down at his feet with a muttered curse.  “I just always wanted to...  I used to watch it with my brother when we were kids.”

“I think it's awesome. I totally want to see it before we hit the road again.”  He bites his lip. “And anyone who laughs at you has no respect for the heroics of Kirk so come on, how bad can being mocked by them be.”

“Depends on what kind of mood he’s in,” the girl cuts in, pushing past the boys and leaning into Boyd as she takes in Stiles.  “I like your hippie vibe—we saw you in Texas, right?”

Stiles blinks.  “Yes.”

“This is Boyd,” she says, jerking her head to her right, “and Isaac.”  She mimics the gesture to her left.  “And I’m Erica.  Derek would be the one tugging Isaac’s pigtails if he knew they were gonna go take pictures next to a stone proclaiming the future birth of a fictional character.”

“Derek with the eyes,” Stiles says, because the road has worn off the soles of his sneakers and the trips in his words.

Erica grins like a predator in the wild.  “Yeah, with the eyes. And the eyebrows too. Do you want to come with? It's been a while since I've had a pretty boy on the back of my bike.”

Stiles gulps.  “I—you know—I would, but I—”

“Stop panicking, hippie boy,” Erica coos, patting his cheek.  “Maybe next time.”

Stiles genuinely hopes there is a next time.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets a text when they’re heading into Chicago.

 

_Grabbed your phone while you were picking up 18 cups of coffee._

 

Stiles frowns, glancing around at the others.  Danny is driving, Scott and Allison are napping, and Jackson and Lydia are trading off a bong in the back.  But before Stiles can even text back, the phone buzzes again.

 

_This is Erica, by the way. The guys and I are heading towards Louisiana. Don’t suppose you’re going the same way?_

_No, we're heading up to Windy City. My friend needed concrete and a breather from the road._

 

He gets back a sad face and a _See you eventually_. Stiles closes his eyes and hopes for that.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia thankfully remembers why she set aside her Ivy League future to go on the road with a bunch of kids she never knew she loved. She gets tired of the way people walk around cell phone first and the way the streets look dead and cold. They're back on the road with the speed that only comes from running away.

Tennessee is ridiculous, even if they’re at the very western tip of it and only for about a day, but it only takes that day.

Stiles thinks Derek is a little bit terrifying in person, but that only lasts a few minutes because then Erica is buying them drinks and Derek is shoving himself back into a booth and ignoring the busty waitress who looks like she’s trying to complete a strange mating ritual.

“He doesn’t like redheads,” Isaac tells Stiles, running a hand down his side.

Stiles likes the idea of being a hippie, abstractly.  And then he wonders—is free love really a thing?  Because Stiles would be 100% okay with hooking up with four out of four members of the crazy biker bunch that they keep running into.

Danny swoops into the booth beside him and then his whole tribe descends, somehow making themselves comfortable in the crowded space. Lydia introduces everyone like some kind of mother hen, Allison seems taken by the Erica's leathers while Scott continues to be taken by Allison. Jackson drowns the sorrows of his life choices in coffee and Danny looks like he discovered the face of God in Isaac's smile.

The night winds down in the wee hours of the morning with Scott and Allison heading back to the van.  Danny hooks his fingers in Isaac’s and the last time Stiles sees them, he thinks they’re heading for a motel.  Lydia and Boyd seem to be deep in discussion and Derek—Derek is nursing a beer and a glass of water and he doesn’t look the least bit drunk.

Stiles hadn’t touched any liquor since it’s his turn to drive in the morning and he hates hangovers more than anything, but now.  Now he wonders if Derek’s lips taste like southern beer and life on the road.

“Where are you guys heading next?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks around and notices Erica is busy holding court with Jackson about conditioning. He shrugs one shoulder. “It's Boyd's turn to pick.”

“So you're pretty much like us?”

Derek looks amused by the mere idea. “I don't think we are.”

“But you don’t really have goals.  Like long term, I mean.  You guys are—wandering.  Like us.”  He scoots a little closer.  They’re the only ones in the booth.  “You could come with us.  We’re going to the Gulf.”

“Like I said.  Boyd’s turn.”  He looks at Stiles, though, and Stiles recognizes the expression.  Or at least what’s behind it.  He’s looking for something, just like Stiles is.  And…  And Stiles can’t stop himself from putting a hand on Derek’s lower thigh, just above his knee, and squeezing.  Derek doesn’t move away.  But he does sit up a little straighter and lick his lips.  “Stiles—”

“All you have to do is say yes or no,” Stiles interrupts him.  “I—I’m sorry.  I wasn’t trying to—offend you—I—”

Derek slaps a hand over his mouth, leaning in close.  Stiles feels like swimming in his eyes.  “I don’t hook up with people I don’t know.”

“Is that an invitation to get to know you better?” Stiles asks when Derek’s hand drops.

Silently, Derek finishes off his beer and exits the booth.  He doesn’t answer Stiles’ question.

Stiles thinks he’s in love.

It's Scott's turn to drive when Danny slinks in behind him.  “It's like he isn't real he's so perfect.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns to face him. “Anyone is perfect if you're in love with them.”

Danny sighs. “Do you think we'll see them again?”

Stiles counts back flashes of glossy black to a parking lot in the south.  “Yeah, I think we might.”

 

* * *

 

 

Twice more, actually.  Both of them are mostly on purpose, though.

Erica calls when they’re West Virginia.  Stiles and the gang are in Maryland and they meet up at the border and share a meal.  No one is surprised when Isaac and Danny disappear.  The second time is nearly a month and a half later.

They’re in Santa Fe, sweating and drinking beers with limes hooked over the lip.  Stiles and Scott and Lydia do shots of tequila and Danny leans into Stiles’ neck and begs him to call Isaac for him, just so he can hear his voice.  The leather-clad foursome is in Phoenix, just about to head up to L.A.

Jackson is the only sober one.  He drives them the seven hours.

It's a little adorable, the way they're shy like puppies nipping at each other, the way they smile like children on Christmas Eve. Stiles won't be the one to suggest they keep going, he won't make Danny choose because that's never what this was about after all. They aren't a cult, they aren't allergic to standing still, they only happen to prefer the wind rushing in through the open car windows. But maybe the dangerous angels are a cult, can't stand still without bursting out of their skin, and can't breathe without the air smacking them in the chest. But Danny is brave. He holds the barbed-wired love on the palm of his hand like it's precious and stands like his broken hummingbird wings are still trying their best to lift him off the ground when they drive away like a black diamond away from the palm trees and glitter of L.A. When they're gone he turns and looks at Jackson, who looks back at him helpless and seething with righteous rage on his behalf. Then he buries his face in Stiles' neck.

“One day,” Stiles tells him, hugging him fiercely.  “People like that—they don’t just disappear from your life.”

Danny doesn’t speak.  His shoulders tremble.

“You’ll see.  You know the stupid sappy crap you like.  If it’s meant to be, this won’t be the last time you see him.”

And Stiles is saying this for himself now too, because even if whatever was happening with Derek never went so far as Danny’s relationship with Isaac did, there was something.  Is something.  And Stiles likes the idea of love at first sight on the road.  Especially when it’s as interesting as this.

Four months later, they’re in the middle of California in some tiny town that smells like garlic and apparently only has one road amidst acres and acres of farm land, and the engine on their trusty van spits and sputters and dies.

They push it as far as they can, but they don’t make it into anything resembling a town when the sun starts going down.  So Stiles shoves everyone up inside and says they’ll look for help in the morning.

They get bored though, stuck and stuffy and anxious and excited. They pile out of the van in the middle of the night and sit on the wet grass. They sing off key and stroke each other’s hair until their hearts settle and the fall asleep. Most of them fall asleep. But Stiles sits with his back against Scott's and their heads tilted back as best they can and they try to memorize the stars.

“Making a wish?”

Stiles shakes his head.  “What's there to wish for? Everything else is just icing.”

“You didn’t hook up with Derek, did you.”  He doesn’t say it like a question.  He sounds concerned.

Stiles smirks, closing his eyes for a second.  “No.  I don’t think—I mean, I guess it just wasn’t meant to happen, you know?”

“What about Danny and Isaac?”

“I don’t know, dude.”  He sighs.  “I think they’re good.  I think they’re gonna find each other again.  They have to.  What hope is there for me if they don’t?”

“Because of Derek?”

“Because of true love, even if it’s not Derek.”

The thunderous roar of an engine wakes them up one day many nights from then by the side of a road on their way back east. Stiles thinks they're somewhere precisely in the middle of nowhere, undetectable as they like, but the sound wakes them all and makes them burst from windows and doors like daisies from the dirt as the bike stops just in front of them. Danny's hanging from a window, his hands trying to dent the old frame.

It’s not Isaac.

It’s Derek, and he’s standing there, staring at them like he’s amused.  “Are you stalking me?” he asks.

There’s farmland all around them, offset by charming picket fence houses and a county drug store, and Stiles wonders if that’s a legitimate question.

“Obviously,” Jackson drawls, passing his joint to Scott.  “Because we don’t have better things to do.”

Derek looks between all of them, eyes roaming until he hits—Danny.  He nods politely.  “Isaac and the rest of them are a day or two behind me.  They should be here by tomorrow night, maybe.”

Stiles climbs out of the van.  “What are you doing out here on your own?”

“I had things to do,” he says, his eyes doing that half amused half annoyed thing they do.

“Out here?” Stiles asks, stepping closer. “Things?”

Derek's partial amusement turns quickly into fully annoyed. “Stuff.”

“We have stuff for breakfast,” Allison says helpfully before ducking back inside.

“That won’t be necessary,” Derek tells her, but he doesn’t move his eyes from Stiles yet.  “Also, some folks around here aren’t big fans of—”

“Wanderers?” Stiles interrupts.

Derek nods shortly.  “Might want to move your van off private property.”

“Is there anywhere around here that isn’t private property?”

“Try further into town.”  He points.  “There’s a bar open 24/7.  The lot out back is full of…”  He smirks.  “Wanderers.”

They drink very cheap beer and convince Derek to join them while he waits for the rest.  He won't sleep in the van with them and Stiles isn't sure he sleeps at all. He spies him out of the window, his back against his bike and his feet planted on the ground.

“Just go,” Scott mumbles.  “True love isn't telepathic and all that.”

But Stiles stays inside, catches Derek's eye once before he buries himself in the bundle of blankets and arms and legs.  The next time he peeks out the window, it’s noon and everyone is out of the van except Lydia and Stiles.  She’s leaning into him, her chin hooked over his shoulder.

“Who do you think he’s talking to?” she asks, watching as Derek speaks into his cell phone.

“Isaac, maybe.”  Stiles closes the blanket-made-curtain over the window and lies down again, sighing at the ceiling.  “It’s weird, right?  That we keep running into them?  Like—it’s fate.”  Lydia says nothing.  “I thought it was because of Isaac and Danny and, fuck, maybe it is.  I still think it is.  Partly.  But…”

“But Derek.”

Stiles nods.  “But Derek.”

“It could be wishful thinking,” Lydia says. She's always been particularly cruel in her teasing.

“It could be,” he agrees.

She shoves at his shoulder.  “Go find out.”

He snorts. “No.”

“Stiles!”

“Lydia!”

“You're scared,” she tells him.

“What's there to be scared of?”

“You don't know. That's why you're afraid.”

Stiles sighs.  “Things don’t work out this way.  Ever.”

“Maybe it’s about time they did.”  And with that, Lydia shoves him towards the door and stands in front of him, blocking his way.  “No escape, Stilinski.  Go get your man.”

When Stiles steps out into the sun, Derek is hanging up the phone.

“Isaac?” Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  “No.”

Stiles licks his lips. “I hope he makes it though. You know. Danny...”

“I know,” Derek says simply, but it doesn't sound like he does.

“I just mean, if you guys want to ride along with us for a while. Or we could drive along with you,” he carries on.  “We're never really going anywhere in particular.”

“That I know.”

Stiles kicks at the dirt. “You said you don't hook up with people you don't know.”

“That's right.”

He sticks out his hand. “Hi. My name's Stiles. I'm twenty-three and I left a good fine Jeep and a worried dad at home to give these people somewhere to breathe.”

Derek hesitates, looking down at the hand, and when he looks back up at Stiles’ face, it seems like he’s searching for a hint of insincerity.  “Am I supposed to do that now?” he asks, and he’s smiling softly.  Amused all over again.

“It would make me feel a little less embarrassed,” Stiles tells him.

So Derek takes his hand, pumps it once.  “Derek.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “C’mon, you can give me a little more than that.”

“I’m too old for you.”

Stiles smirks.  “Wow, jumping the gun a little bit. Maybe I just wanted to get a cup of coffee.”

“I wasn’t aware that ‘hook up’ had different meanings.”

“Oh, sure.”  Stiles looks down at how their hands are still connected.  “Tons of meanings.”  Derek doesn't pull away so Stiles pulls him forward. “Tell me something I don't know or I won't let go.”

“A wolf pup’s eyes are blue at birth. Their eyes turn yellow by the time they’re eight months old.”

Stiles blinks and then laughs, with his eyes shut and his whole body shaking.  “Oh God you just had that in the tip of your tongue? Do you collect random facts or just facts about wolves? Or do you know a lot about them just because?”

Derek still looks amused but all he says is, “You said you'd let go.”

“I should’ve been clearer.”  He takes another step forward.  They’re so close that their noses are nearly touching.  “Tell me something about yourself.  You could start with why you think you’re too old for me, or you could go into how you know that about wolves.”

Derek licks his lips. 

Stiles smirks.

“I grew up here,” he says softly.  “There are wolves in the woods—they would scare our horses.”

Stiles’ smirk falls away in favor of an open, shocked mouth.  “Holy shit, you’re a bona fide hillbilly.”

Derek rolls his eyes.  He closes Stiles' mouth with two fingers under his chin.  “And I'm too old for you because you're no older than Isaac.”

Stiles blinks after him as he takes a step back and starts walking away.  “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It does to me,” Derek calls over his shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t run after him.  He wants to, but he doesn’t.  So he just sits on the pavement and leans against the van, waiting, thinking.  Because there isn’t much time left.  He thinks about what Derek’s words mean and what his hand meant, clasped in his.  He thinks—wow.  This is different.  New.  Exciting.  And ridiculous.

Scott comes back to get him a little while later and while he’s gone, Derek must come back and take his bike, because when they’re all heading back to the van later that night, it’s gone.  And so is he.

Danny crawls up into the van and curls around a pillow.

“Isaac will be here—he wouldn’t leave.”  Stiles strokes his hair.  “He wouldn’t leave without seeing you.”

Stiles has Danny's body pressed into his back when there's a shy knock against the back doors of the van. Everyone stirs but Stiles shushes them down and shoves Danny behind him. He sticks his head out of the car and grins.

“Knew you'd make it.”

Isaac looks tired and worn out from the road, but he looks happy and hopeful. “Is. Can I...?”

“Christ's sake, stop torturing the kid and let us sleep!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and reaches back to pull Danny out beside him. “This what you're looking for?”

Isaac grins stupidly.  “Yeah.”

Danny practically launches himself at Isaac, and Stiles smirks, trying to ignore the tug on his heartstrings.  He peeks around them, though, trying to see if Erica, Boyd, and Derek came with.

“I came alone,” Isaac says when he notices Stiles’ gaze.  Danny has buried his face in Isaac’s neck and they’re holding each other.  “We—Derek met us on the road and said he needed to get going.  I just wanted…”  He swallows tightly.  “Is it okay?  That I’m here?”

Stiles blinks.  “Yeah. Of course, I mean, if that's okay with Danny.”

Against Isaac's neck he mumbles, “It's okay with Danny.”

Stiles laughs and ducks back into the van, squirming back into the pile. “Looks like we're making room for one more.”

They go on like that for a while and it’s no different from normal except that there’s another person.  Stiles expects to feel a little left out, formerly one of two single people in the group and now left to his own devices, but he just…doesn’t.  He’s happy.  He’s happy for Isaac and for Danny and for all of them because the van doesn’t feel crowded.  It feels, if anything, complete.

Except for the nagging in the back of Stiles’ head that keeps whining about Derek.

Where is he?  How is he?  Is he thinking about Stiles?

What does everything he said mean?  Why does he care about how old Stiles is and why did he just run off without saying goodbye?

It's kind of fun watching the hardened biker evaporate off Isaac. Traveling inside the van is too warm for his jacket so that comes off, and there seems to be a new bounce in his angel curls as well as a blossoming of various geeky T-shirts that Stiles never fails to appreciate. One night when they’re up on their own, Danny long passed out by Jackson while Lydia curls over both of them, Stiles is all too tempted to ask what the deal with Derek is.

He doesn’t, though, because it’s peaceful, and he doesn’t feel like ruining the moment.

Isaac is leaning against the wall of the van, a pillow on his lap, and he’s watching Danny breathe into Lydia’s hair.  He looks content.

So Stiles doesn’t speak.  Stiles waits.

It’s fall again when they head into Nebraska.

They go to a bar and the couples dance and Stiles drinks. It doesn't happen often but the bartender is a fun old guy and by 1 o’clock Stiles is behind the counter learning new mixes and telling road stories and it might be a fun life as far as stationary lives go. Getting people drunk, trading stories, being in charge of the fun.

If he were to settle down, Stiles thinks this is what he would do.  Screw a humanities major and four years at UCLA.  Drinking is more fun.

They go on, though, because Allison wants to see the Niagara Falls for, like, the third time.  They indulge because it’s fun and it’s artistic and they can camp out and be together and no one there even cares—except the families with the young kids who point at everything.  They kind of care.

Stiles doesn’t expect to run into Derek on the way there.

They’re at a gas station.  Jackson’s filling up the van while Scott and Lydia are grabbing all the candy and junk they can fit in their hands, and Derek, Erica, and Boyd just roll in.  Just like that.

Isaac looks nervous, and Stiles wonders briefly if he's misread it all. If Derek is someone to be nervous around, scared of. But Isaac looks almost sad as well and Danny holds him close, arms wrapped around his middle. Isaac kisses his hand and walks over to them. Stiles watches closely but the other three wrap their arms around him like a football huddle and Stiles breathes calmly again.

Derek’s eyes meet his over Isaac’s head and Stiles doesn’t look away.  Can’t.  Because he wants Derek to walk over and say something to him, something that either tells him there’s hope to hang onto or exterminates his crush hard and fast—just something to get him out of this purgatory.

Somehow, they find themselves smushed together, the entirety of Stiles’ ragtag bunch meshed in with Derek’s clan, and so Stiles says hello, because it’s the polite thing to do.  Derek almost smiles.

They sit around cups of coffee when they get out of the gas stations and it's suddenly obvious to Stiles that there is an issue of custody at hand. “You want to take Danny?”

Boyd shakes his head. “No one is taking anyone.”

“Au contraire,” Erica coos, waggling her eyebrows at the couple.

Derek interjects.  “What we're saying is we wouldn't mind it if they came along with us. We could go pick up Isaac's bike.”

Stiles takes in a sip of coffee and the frowns of his friends. Danny himself won't look away from Isaac, who won't look away from his hands. “Well, that's up to them isn't it?”

“We need to talk about this,” Danny says softly.  “Just the two of us.”

Isaac nods.  “Yeah.  We do.”

Stiles is the first one up and he drags Scott with him, who in turn grabs Allison, who grabs Lydia.  Jackson doesn’t seem to be budging, though.  Instead, he turns to Derek and says, “It’s their decision.  That means you guys leave, too.”

Stiles watches him carefully, because something tells him that while Jackson was the first one on board of Danny pursuing love, he isn't going to take his leaving sitting down. Or quietly. Or nicely at all.

He understands though, Jackson doesn't mean to be selfish, but Danny was always the one that never left him. The one he could look at his side and find. Under the scowl Stiles knows so well, he can almost see him quaking in fear.

“We’re gonna talk about it,” Danny tells Jackson calmly.  “Relax—go, okay?”

Jackson doesn’t move, though.  Not until Derek nods stiffly and gathers his own group to leave.

Stiles and Derek wind up walking to the van together, slower than the rest of them.

“Danny doesn’t know how to ride a motorcycle.”

Derek shrugs.  “If he wanted, he would share with Isaac, but that’s not the point.”  He stops, turning to Stiles.  “Danny’s your friend.  I get that—but Isaac.  Isaac’s not just our friend.  He’s—”  He shakes his head, licks his lips.  “You told me you left your dad behind when you went off with your friends?  How do you think he felt?  When you just up and disappeared because you loved somebody.”

“I think he was glad I was happy,” Stiles snaps back.

“I'm not saying I'm not.” Derek frowns at the accusation.  “But I—we miss him. And it's their choice, no matter what you all think.”

“Jackson loves Danny like a brother, just like we all do,” Stiles tells him.  “He won’t force him to stay.  Not if Danny wants to go.  None of us will.”

Derek takes a moment to play that back in his head apparently, because he doesn’t move for a long moment.  Then, finally, he nods.  “I appreciate that.”

“And, if Isaac wants to stay with us, you won’t stop him either.  Right?”

“Right.”

Everyone is tense until dinner when Isaac and Danny come back to the oversized group holding hands and looking a mixture of happy and anxious. No one says a word until Jackson clears his throat.  “Well?”

Danny licks his lips and takes a deep breath, squeezing Isaac's hand.  “We… We're going to go.”

Jackson deflates like a balloon and Derek stands a little straighter until Isaac speaks.  “But…  We're going on our own.”

There are a lot of hugs and tears and Stiles squeezes both of them as tight as they can and agrees to drive them wherever they want to go so that they can start together.  Derek hugs Isaac for a long while and shakes Danny’s hand firmly.  His silent threat is as clear as it would’ve been if he’d spoken it aloud.

“I promise,” Danny says.

Derek disappears a little while later.

Later, Stiles isn’t surprised when he finds him at the only bar in the area, packed with large men with gold bands on their fingers and tired eyes fixed on the TV in the corner, watching the highlights of a football game.

He rests his hand on Derek's shoulder and sits beside him. “Hey. I know you'll miss him but it's a good thing.”

Derek takes a drink. “Yeah. I know.”

“And they'll keep in touch,” Stiles adds.

“Mmm,” Derek hums. “I'm sure.”

“What are you going to do?”

Derek stares at his drink for a while before answering. “Wait for Boyd and Erica to go.”

“I don't think they'll—”

“They will. Probably soon.”

Stiles licks his lips.  “And then?”

“And then I’ll go off on my own.  For a bit.”  He runs his thumb down his glass, wiping away a line of condensation.  “I’m too old to be doing this.”

“You’re never too old to be doing what makes you happy.”  Stiles says it because he means it, but the way Derek looks at him afterwards makes Stiles’ heart contract.  “Has no one ever told you that?”

Derek swallows tightly.  “My sister.  Before I left.”

“I bet she misses you.”

And then Derek kisses him.  Just like that.  Stiles barely touches him, fingertips and palm on his leather-clad shoulder, not even a brushing of the knees, and just a few words and Derek’s mouth is on his like he can’t quite help himself.

He slips away much too quickly for someone as imposing as he is but Stiles is just steps after him. “Derek, wait!”

Derek stops but doesn't turn around to look at him, so Stiles plants himself in front of him. 

“What was that?”

Derek looks like he's trying to swallow his own existence so Stiles does the most sensible thing and kisses him again. Kisses him properly. He throws his arms around Derek's neck and pulls their bodies flush together, licks at Derek's bottom lip until he can snake his way into his mouth and taste him.

Stiles expects Derek to fight him.  But he doesn’t.  Derek puts his hands on either side of Stiles’ face and kisses him back, drops one arm to wrap around his middle and drags the other through Stiles’ hair.  He kisses Stiles like he wants to, like he means to, like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do at that moment.

“Don’t run away from me,” Stiles whispers to him.  “Please, don’t.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just brings him in again, kisses him.

They end up in the back of the van, the doors locked and barricaded. Derek presses him into the mattress closest to the back, his lips sucking and his teeth nipping. Stiles claws at Derek's back, pulling him as close as he can.

“Derek... Derek, please.”

Derek sits up, shoves off his jacket and yanks off his T-shirt, and Stiles doesn’t even get a second to enjoy it before Derek is kissing him again, scooping his body against his.  Derek’s hands crawl up under Stiles’ T-shirt and he pulls his mouth away with a pop to wrestle it over Stiles’ head.

Stiles flails with getting his own shirt of and then shivers as he presses their bodies together, skin against skin. He kisses down Derek's neck, which makes him tense at first and then all at once, his body relaxes and he runs his hands down Stiles' body.

His fingers hook over his waistband and he drags the jeans down, uncaring as he tosses them behind him.  “Fuck,” Derek hisses.  “Really?  Commando?”

“We have to do laundry,” Stiles tells them, yanking him back down for a kiss.  “Does it bother you?”

“God, no.”

Stiles nearly shouts when Derek takes him in his mouth.  As it is, he manages to drag a pillow and bite down because the van walls are thin and, fuck, they’re in a public parking lot.  This is the closest Stiles has ever come to exhibition and it’s making him so nervous that he can barely breathe right when Derek swallows around him.

He digs his fingers into Derek's hair and tries his best not to be too loud but when he tugs and tugs to let him know, to warn him, Derek digs his own fingers into the cheeks of Stiles’ ass and swallows as he comes.

His whole body trembles.  It’s been so long and that was embarrassingly short, but Derek doesn’t seem to mind because he’s just licking and nibbling at Stiles’ thighs, not a care in the world.  Until, of course, he continues up Stiles’ body and straddles his leg, pressing his denim-clad cock against him.

“I don’t—can I—please—”

Stiles rolls them, shoving Derek down and going to work on his jeans immediately.  As soon as they’re down, Stiles takes a moment to appreciate how delicious he looks in dark gray boxer briefs before ducking down and mouthing at him through the fabric.

“Shit, Stiles.”

He’s super okay with blowing Derek.  Like, ridiculously okay with it, but Derek wants to kiss him apparently, so he straddles the other man and pushes his waistband down, wrapping a hand around him and just holding him for a moment, distracted by Derek’s mouth.

Derek is kissing him like he's drowning and Stiles is air. It's enough to get his mind away from the rest of them until Derek starts thrusting against his thigh.

Stiles pulls away just an inch.  “I…  You can…  I want you to.”

For a moment it seems that Derek doesn’t even hear him, trapped in his hazy cloud of lust and excitement.  But when he stops kissing down Stiles’ throat and slows his hips to a halt, he blinks up at Stiles through long, distracting eyelashes and says, “You have to tell me.”  He swallows tightly, licks his lips.  “I want to hear you say it.”

His breath hitches when Derek slides a hand up his side and another into his hair. “I want you to.” He bites his lip and dips in to kiss Derek's jaw, slowly kissing his way up to his ear so he can breathe it out softly, “I want you to fuck me.”

Derek groans, the vibrations tickling Stiles’ lips, and shoves them over again so he’s on top.  “Lube.”

There’s a pocket on the back door where there’s a plethora of condoms and lube and Lydia’s birth control pills and Stiles grabs a handful of what he can before his mouth is captured again.

Derek opens him up slowly, has him rocking and pleading and moaning so quickly that he thinks Derek must be some kind of magic because it’s never been like this.  With anyone.

Some part of his mind tells him that’s because Derek isn’t just anyone.  He’s Derek.

He tries his best to keep kissing him but it turns into more of a battle for air with their lips brushing against each other because Derek is pushing in slowly, so torturously slow.

Stiles tries to hold onto his shoulders.  “Der—Derek.”

Derek doesn’t speak.  He presses his face into Stiles’ neck grasps his hips, brushes his thumbs along Stiles’ pelvic bone and breathes carefully, like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

Stiles can’t think, doesn’t know if he can even speak properly, but he knows that Derek’s nervous, and he has to do something about that.

“Hey.”  He grabs Derek’s face between his hands, waiting until he opens his eyes.  He’s momentarily breathless, struck with nostalgia and a whole mush pot of feelings that he can’t seem to control, because Derek’s eyes are big and green and beautiful and he can remember how he felt when they first met, wanting to fall into them.  “It’s okay—it’s okay.”  And he kisses Derek to prove it to him, winding his legs around his waist.

That seems to give Derek all the confidence he inexplicably needed and he starts to move at a stronger, quicker pace. It's still not fast, not dirty and harsh; it's still both even and purposeful in every thrust.

They kiss, because they just can’t seem to stop that, but it only takes a minute before the kissing dissolves into breathing against each other’s mouths and ducking to slobber over each other’s necks.  It’s charming, Stiles thinks, and he laughs at the green-ish color of the van ceiling.  The sound turns into a moan not an instant later.

Stiles takes his time with Derek.  And that’s funny to him, too—because that’s really how it is.  Derek may be inside him, but he can tell, either because of something Derek wants or because it’s just how Stiles is, that he’s in charge.  He’s in control.

He runs his hands down and up Derek’s back and twists his fingers in his hair, nibbles on his ear and spurs him on.  He can slow Derek down, touch him in every ridiculous erogenous zone he can find until the man is a puddle.  And so he does.

There’s not a whole lot of difference in the pacing.  It’s just a little slower, a little deeper, and Derek can’t seem to stop pressing his mouth on every bit of skin he can reach.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes they don't have all the time in the world (as much as he wishes they did), so he rolls them over by giving small guiding shoves at Derek and tries to catch his breath once he's on top.

Derek shudders, breathing harshly and looking up at Stiles with eyes caught in a mix of amusement and derisiveness.  Stiles takes it in stride, smirking at him and lifting himself up onto his knees.

“Relax,” he says, tugging on his cock.  “We’re almost there.”

Derek smiles like Stiles has told a joke and settles his hands on Stiles’ hips, arching up and pushing further inside of him.

“Fuck—you.”

So Stiles rides him, because he can’t not, not when he’s so close and they don’t know when the others will come back.  He settles his hands on Derek’s chest and rides him how he likes, how he used to ride his fingers when he didn’t have anyone else, how he knows he can come hard and fast and get Derek there too. 

His arms shake and he falters as he comes but Derek is there to catch him, there to wrap his arms around him and kiss him as he continues to thrust and to moan into his lips. Stiles can't really think or see or hear anything but he mouths aimlessly at Derek's skin, breathing out encouragement and urging him on.

Derek comes quietly, grunting slightly and holding onto Stiles like he’ll die if he lets go.  And when they’re both soft and warm and pliant, Stiles goes about cleaning them up, because Jackson is sure to torture him if he sees come splattered anywhere.

Derek lies there for a moment longer, eyes blinking lazily as he watches Stiles move.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stiles says, but it doesn’t have any anger behind it, just fond annoyance.

“Hm?”

“Like you’re thinking of round two.”

Derek smiles and Stiles can't help leaning in and kissing him, gently, with no hurry at all. “So you don't hook up with people you don't know. Is it fair to say we know each other? Or that…  This wasn't a hookup?”

“No,” Derek says, “it wasn’t.”

“So…  That means…”  Stiles pushes his fingers through Derek’s hair, looking at him contently.  “That means we need to talk.  About this.”

“Probably.”

“When?”

Derek looks like he’s just about to respond when there’s a loud banging at the back of the van and a muffled, “Open the fuck up, Stilinski!”  It sounds like Jackson.  “If you got your jizz on my clothes, I’ll tear your arm off!”

Stiles grins, leaning into Derek’s shoulder and laughing.  “Just a second, cranky pants.”

They dress quietly and Stiles can’t seem to stop running his hands all over Derek.  His shoulders as his tugs on his T-shirt, his hips as he buttons up his jeans.  And Derek kisses him again, deep and soulful, right before Stiles goes to open up the van.

Jackson doesn't look the least bit amused. “You done now? Can I febreeze the mattress and go the fuck to sleep now?”

Stiles smiles. “Don't front, Jackson. You just want an excuse to febreeze.”

Jackson scowls at them, pushing up into the van and whipping the sheets off the mattress.

Stiles doesn’t stick around to watch.  Instead, he grabs onto Derek’s hand, uncaring that they’re standing in front of everyone he knows and loves—except Scott and Allison, who have apparently gone looking for somewhere else to spend the night.

He’s kind of upset that his best friend has to wait until morning to find out he got laid.

“It’s about fucking time,” Erica sighs, rolling her eyes at them.

“At least they didn’t do it on the bikes,” Boyd adds.

Jackson flips him off.

They take a few rooms in a nearby motel when Jackson deems the van uninhabitable until morning. Stiles only blushes slightly when he and Derek are shoved into a room. He's almost shy, almost, but he decides to kiss the frown off Derek's face.

“Don’t be grumpy,” Stiles says against his lips.  “We should be grateful.  We get a room to ourselves for the rest of the night.”

They shower together—because Stiles feels remarkable sticky—and when they’re still slightly damp, but much cleaner, they head to bed and lie together.

“What do we do?” Stiles asks him then, looking down at their hands as their fingers twist and play with each other.

He knows he's not talking about this moment. Derek probably knows it to, if the nervous twitch in his fingers is any indication.  “I... Stiles, you have to understand. They can leave me but I can't leave them.”

And Stiles knows that, he does.  He gets it.  So he just nods and scoots a little closer.  “Okay.  So…we wait?”

“I think that’s what’s best.  For now.”

Waiting.  Stiles hates waiting.  Because it could be months, for all he knows.  It could be a year, or more.  Maybe it just never happens.

“Stiles.”

Stiles closes his eyes, presses his face against Derek’s neck.  “Hm?”

“Are you sure about this?  About—me?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, not even hesitating.  “I am.”

No one understands it the next morning when Stiles and Derek are ready to go their separate ways. They aren't upset.  Hell, they obviously can't keep their hands off each other. But at the end of the day there’s no trade off. With the exception of Danny and Isaac, things stay the same.

For as closed off and quiet as Derek had been the first few times they met, he’s as affectionate when they say goodbye.  He kisses Stiles for a long while, running his hands through his hair and over his back, and Stiles behaves in kind, unwilling to extricate himself from their embrace until Jackson throws a water bottle at his head.

“You’ll call,” Stiles says.

“I will.”

And that’s all it takes.

They drop Danny and Isaac off in southern California, leave them with hugs and kisses and a handful of condoms, and then they’re back on the road all over again.

That’s in October.

Derek calls once every few days, never for more than a few minutes, and Stiles lives with it because there’s nothing else he can do.  He smokes and drinks and sleeps under the stars and gets grazed by a bullet when someone in Texas wants them off his land.

That’s in November.

Stiles drives them up to his hometown for Thanksgiving.

It’s the first time he’s seen his dad face-to-face in over a year.

He cries.

They don’t stay there long, though, and Lydia wants to see New York at Christmas time so they stop in Ohio and do little jobs for as much money as they can get and by the time they feel the snow coming on, they’re in the city.

January passes.

February goes by in a disgusting blur of hearts and handmade gifts and Stiles is the only one left in the van on Valentine’s Day because the others have all gone off and gotten rooms.  He and Derek have phone sex.

It’s April when it happens.

They stop off at a bakery because Scott heard they had butterbeer cupcakes and then everyone wanted butterbeer cupcakes so Stiles sighs and smiles and parks the van, ready to be glared at by employees when the whole tribe of them invade. But instead he finds Erica, her hair up in a ponytail and her lips a glossy pink instead of red.

“Stiles!”

Everyone is dumbfounded to see them there, but mostly excited at the prospect of a discount on the cupcakes. Stiles though, his heart is beating out of his chest when he sees Boyd wave from the kitchen behind her.

“Don't tell me Derek is baking cupcakes without telling me about it.”

Erica's expression freezes and then falls slightly.  “I…  Derek didn't tell you? My great aunt—she's getting older so she asked me to take over for her here. I asked Boyd to come with me. But… Derek, he dropped us off and…”

Stiles frowns, because none of this makes sense. “How long?”

Erica taps her pencil and bites her lip.  “Three months.”

Stiles blinks.  “Three.  Three months.  Since February?”

“Stiles, I’m so sorry, I thought—”

He holds up a hand.  “No.  Just—don’t.  It’s fine.  It’s—thanks.  For telling me.”  And he leaves it at that, wandering back out to the van to wait for everyone else.

He’s numb for a while after that.  It takes a little over two weeks for it to really hit him that it’s over.  That Derek doesn’t want him the way he thought.  That there isn’t anything for them there.  That it really was just a hookup, even if Stiles didn’t know it then.

Derek has been texting him, not really questions, just observations the way he will sometimes. The things the heat does for his leather jacket look, a picture of an unfortunately phrased sign, the occasional _I Miss You_. But Stiles doesn't answer, and he doesn't pick up the phone and his friends are getting worried. It's just he doesn't want to hear the lies and the way Derek pretends to care about him. He doesn't want to give himself false hope and he absolutely doesn't want to have that conversation with him. The one where he tells him to stop calling and stop pretending and just get the rest of the way out of Stiles' life.

He likes the connection, even if it’s one sided.  He likes knowing that even if Derek doesn’t feel the way Stiles does, he still feels enough to want to talk to him. He still cares.

But maybe he’s lonely.  He would be, without Boyd and Erica now, and so maybe Stiles is just being used.

Stiles doesn’t like feeling like he’s being used.  But at the same time, he can’t tell Derek that.  He can’t just say that’s he done and he wants Derek gone.

It’d be too hard.

So Stiles doesn’t respond, and it takes three weeks for Derek’s texts to turn frantic.

 

_Call me.  I miss you._

_We haven’t talked in a while, I hope you’re okay._

_Where are you now? Just heading into Nevada, maybe we can meet up._

_Saw Isaac and Danny, they say they haven’t heard from you either._

_Stiles, call me._

_Stiles, I’m worried._

_Please._

* * *

 

 

Lydia wakes him up one morning by dumping a glass of iced water on his face. “Your boyfriend called me. Have you ever heard a butch leather-wearing biker close to tears, Stiles? It's disturbing. I did not need that image in my head.”

Stiles rolls over after wiping his face on Jackson’s shirt and goes back to clutching his pillow.  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Fucking—look.”  She crawls atop him, pinning him down.

Stiles smirks.  “Hello, high school fantasy.”

She rolls her eyes.  “So Derek didn’t tell you he was on his own, big fucking deal.  You think that makes a difference?  He’s head over heels for you.  He’s scared—he wants you, Stiles.  He wants the whole shebang.  But there’s something wrong there.  You see it too, don’t you?”

And Stiles does.  Stiles remembers that feeling he got when he understood why Derek was cold and calculated.  Because Derek’s been hurt before and he didn’t want that to happen again.

“But he—Lydia, he said that it was for them. That we had to wait because they needed him.”

“Is that _exactly_ what he said?”

“It was clearly implied!”

She swats him on the back of the head.  “You fucking idiot.  Jesus Christ, okay.  He left me an address.  He said if you’re ready, you should meet him here.”  She slips a piece of paper into his hand, an old Post-It from like three weeks ago with a grocery list on the other side.

It’s in Derek’s hometown.

Jackson drives if only to avoid to talking to him. He won't admit it but Stiles knows Jackson isn't happy, never is when someone might leave him. Even Stiles. So he sits next to him on the passenger seat, even though they hardly say a word to each other.

It takes them days to get there, but Stiles won't call Derek and he's not even sure why anymore, but he feels like if they're going to talk they need to do it face to face.

When Stiles sees the house, he’s torn between laughing and crying.

It’s huge.  Like really huge.  Like two stories with high ceilings and spread across a quarter mile horizontally huge.  Then there’s all the land around it.  Acres of land.  Stiles thinks he hears a horse whiny.

“When you get married can I ride the horses?” Lydia asks him.

Stiles elbows her.

Scott and Allison are equally impressed. Jackson insists his grandfather's house is much bigger and in less of a hick-town. The place seems quiet though, as if you'd be lucky to find the people who live there at any given time. But Lydia tugs at his arm and points upstairs where a curtain has very obviously just moved.

Stiles feels his heart lurch into his throat.

Obviously the place is fucking gated (Jackson has a sassy comment about that too, Stiles is sure, but he doesn’t hear it), but within seconds of the curtain’s movement, the gate is sliding open and Scott is pulling the van into the spacious drive.

When the front door opens, someone who looks like Derek’s brother steps out.

Because he looks like Derek.  Hair, eyebrows, lips, stubble, all that.  Except that he’s wearing a plain shirt and blue jeans, a la The Hannah Montana Movie.

Stiles thinks he might puke.

They all stand around Stiles until Derek clears his throat.  “Uh, there's...lemonade out back.”

That's enough for them to make themselves scarce. It's also enough for Stiles to completely flip out.

“There's _lemonade_ out back? WHO ARE YOU? And—and—how long have you been here and—and _why_ have you been here?”

Derek hooks his thumbs in the pocket of his jeans.

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he feels his brain shake a bit.

“I’ve been here for a few weeks.  I think it was right about the time you ran into Erica and Boyd.”  He looks like he might have a little bit of shame over that, except his eyes never leave Stiles’.  “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Stiles demands.  “When you fucking felt like it?  When you decided you were willing to see me again?  When it suited you?”

“I had to…  Stiles, I just wanted everything to be right. And I didn't want to just run to you the second they went away.”

“Why?  Because you needed to enjoy your freedom for a little while? Couldn't you have told me that?”

Derek looks like he might start shouting.  “Because I didn't want to replace them with you.  Because, God, Stiles—they're my family. They're my—I didn't want you to feel like I was just with you because I missed them.”

Stiles wants to say he wouldn’t have felt that way, it would’ve have mattered, but he knows that’s a lie.  Because he probably would’ve thought that he was a replacement, a new doll to play with because the old ones were gone.  And he feels appropriately chastised.

Except.

“You still should’ve told me.”  He crosses his arms defiantly.  “You should’ve told me when they’d gone.”

“I know,” Derek mutters.  “I just—thought it would be easier.  Tell me you wouldn’t have tried to find me when you found out I was on my own.”

“Not if you didn’t want me to.”

Derek licks his lips.  “My parents live here.  And my sister.  I decided I would come and…relax, for a little while.  But I thought, if you wanted, I could take you to my place in Chicago—”

“You have an apartment in Chicago,” Stiles says.

He looks over his shoulder at the house.  “My family…  We kind of…  I kind of own places.  Companies.”

“In Chicago.”

“And New York, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles.

And Stiles doesn’t want Chicago.  Stiles doesn’t want tight spaces and big buildings.  He wants the road and freedom and nothing tying him down.

Stiles wants Derek.

He swallows tightly, looks down at his shoes.  “I don’t care,” he says when he finally looks at Derek’s eyes again, “about what is apparently a vast amount of wealth.  Jackson’s family owns half of the town we grew up in and I still think he’s a piece of shit.  You don’t—I don’t care at all.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you telling me this.”

“Because it’s your choice, Stiles.”  And the full intensity of what Derek is about to say slaps Stiles in the face.

“What is?”

“I want to be with you,” Derek tells him.  “I don’t care where, I don’t care why; all I care about is you.  With your dumb van or on my bike or in Chicago or anywhere else you want to be—I don’t care.  Not as long as you’re there too.”

“The van’s not dumb.”

Derek smiles softly.  “Stiles.”

“What do you want me to say, Derek?  That I’ll leave my friends and settle down with you with Chicago?  That I’ll sit on the back of your bike for the next eight thousand miles?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head.  “I just want you to say that you want me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles breathes, because how could he not say that?  Derek is just looking at him, though, waiting, and Stiles licks his lips.  “I want you, of course I do, that’s not—that’s not a question.”

“Then what is?”

“How I’m supposed to choose between you and my family.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“You want to ride around with us in a crappy van that half the time smells like come and weed?”

“I can’t tell if you’re ignoring everything I’m saying because you doubt me or because you’re actually deaf.”  He takes a step forward.  “Stiles, I would walk to Siberia if that’s where you wanted to be.”  He lifts his hands, slides them forward to cup Stiles’ cheeks, thumbs on his cheekbones.  “Happily,” he mutters, “would I ride around with you and your idiot friends in a crappy van that smells like come and weed, as long as it meant I got to be with you.”

Stiles has to kiss him then, doesn’t know how he survived without kissing him for so long, and he wraps his arms around Derek’s neck while Derek repositions his hands to the small of Stiles’ back.  They stand there for a long time, kissing and holding each other, and when they finally pull away, Stiles knows.  He knows that whatever happens now, wherever they decide to go, whatever they decide to do, it’s them.  It’s always going to be them.

“You totally love me,” Stiles mutters.

Derek smiles.  “I do.”

“Good.”  Stiles pulls him into another kiss, faster this time, and brushes their noses together when it’s over.  “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Stiles smirks, happiness flooding him so quickly that he just manages a sloppy shrug.  “Wherever the hell we want.”

**Author's Note:**

> So when your hope's on fire  
> But you know your desire  
> Don't hold a glass over the flame  
> Don't let your heart grow cold  
> I will call you by name  
> I will share your road
> 
> -Hopeless Wanderer, Mumford & Sons


End file.
